Sitting

It was sitting, not fishing
that Jerry enjoyed;
the slick, bestselling rod
and well-packed tackle box
were parts of a front, masks
shielding his affair
with just parking rump
and staring into space,
somewhere hidden.

He considered going public,
but was haunted by visions
of gameshow appearances
and harridan quizmasters
scoffing "Hobbies: Sitting?
Ha! Next you'll be telling me
you stiffen at the prospect
of watching emulsion dry!"

No, far better to cite it as "fishing."
No lie: indeed, the rod would be set,
bait fitted, line cast; he would don
a hat spotted with bright feather flies,
and even place a thumbed J.R. Hartley
copy beside him.

Perched on his fold-up stool,
he'd picture the improbable,
gain comfort from pictures
of cats mating with tarantulas,
lorries growing roots, pills
like breeze blocks,
black ice-cream.

The only disturbance,
the occasional fat sprat
or trout that threatened
to drag his equipment
below for a death roll,
in which case he'd wind
the way anglers do, or are meant to,
bring in the would-be thief,
untangle him, launch him
like a lifeboat
and ask
that he not do it again.